My parents retired to a small bungalow in Portstewart. It was meant to be their peaceful, long-term retreat, but it soon felt too small, too cramped — more like an endgame than a sanctuary. My father quickly decided that the little house in its quiet cul-de-sac was more of a prison than a place to rest. So, my parents looked further afield and discovered The Big Green Border.
It was in Portrush, overlooking the sea — a grand, four-level house with countless rooms. When you stepped inside, a sweeping staircase greeted you, crowned by a chandelier made of crystal glass pieces that caught the light and glittered like starlight. Every room seemed to soar upward, with high ceilings and bright bay windows that filled the house with sunshine and sea views.
In the kitchen, an old panel of servant bells still hung on the wall. If you pressed a button in any room, a bell would ring below, summoning help — a relic of another age. As a family, we found it all wonderfully exciting. Gone was the tiny, cluttered bungalow; here was space, light, and possibility.
But even better than the house was the view. From the front windows, you could see miles of golden beach and endless blue sea — a sight that quite literally took your breath away. Just below was a little enclosed cove known as the ladies’ bathing area, perfect for a swim. I can still picture my sons wading out, chest-deep, trying to reach their grandfather perched on a sun-warmed rock.
Visits to the grandparents became seaside adventures: long walks by the shore, trips to the amusement arcade, and endless treats. We all loved that big green border. Of course, it was too much work. My mother spent hours polishing every brass fitting and vacuuming every carpet, from the gleaming front letterbox to the top floor. Still, the house radiated a sense of abundance and freedom.
My father, meanwhile, loved to sit by the window overlooking the sea and street below, fascinated by the passing scene. By day it was peaceful; by night, not so much. Drunken revellers would stagger past, sometimes stopping to wage inexplicable war on the small tree outside the front door. We never understood why — perhaps because it was person-sized, or simply too defiant-looking.
What amused my father most was that the tree always seemed to win. Its leaves were sharp-edged and could cut the hands of anyone foolish enough to wrestle it. No matter how aggressive the drunk, the tree stood its ground, emerging unscathed while its attackers limped away. It was a cheeky, resilient little thing — its spiky, Mohican-like leaves giving it an air of mischief. We were oddly proud of it, and I always thought it deserved a name.
Years later, when The Big Green Border became too much for my parents, they sold it. We were all saddened to discover that the new owner’s first act was to remove that brave little tree. It seemed so unfair, after all it had endured and the rough street justice it had meted out. Perhaps its wild, untidy shape didn’t suit the new, manicured garden.
Decades passed. We would drive by from time to time, watching as the house changed — new paint colours (some ghastly, according to my mother), a replaced front door, the loss of that gleaming brass letterbox. It was his house now, of course, but the absence of that bold little tree always stung.
And then, this week, more than twenty years later, I walked past and stopped in disbelief. There, just by the front door, a tiny sapling was pushing up through the earth. Somehow, impossibly, it was back. Deep underground, a fragment must have survived — stubborn, unbroken, and full of life.
It will take another decade to grow to its former size, but I felt ridiculously happy to see it there. Against all odds, that heroic little tree had returned — as cheeky, determined, and full of spirit as ever.
